“We’re all sworn deputy sheriffs,” called the caretaker smoothly. “We’ve got the law behind us.”
“That must be why you’re coming in the back way,” I replied.
The thick-set man whom Larry had identified as the English detective now came closer and addressed me in a high key.
“You’re harboring a bad man, Mr. Glenarm. You’d better give him up. The American law supports me, and you’ll get yourself in trouble if you protect that man. You may not understand, sir, that he’s a very dangerous character.”
“Thanks, Davidson!” called Larry. “You’d better keep out of this. You know I’m a bad man with the shillalah!”
“That you are, you blackguard!” yelled the officer, so spitefully that we all laughed.
I drew back to the boat-house.
“They are not going to kill anybody if they can help it,” remarked Stoddard, “any more than we are. Even deputy sheriffs are not turned loose to do murder, and the Wabana County Court wouldn’t, if it hadn’t been imposed on by Pickering, lend itself to a game like this.”
“Now we’re in for it,” yelled Larry, and the twelve men, in close order, came running across the ice toward the shore.
“Open order, and fall back slowly toward the house,” I commanded. And we deployed from the boat-house, while the attacking party still clung together,—a strategic error, as Larry assured us.